Whither Thou Goest
by mf32
Summary: Miss Jane Watson must find her brother John's wife Mary, who went missing under mysterious circumstances. Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Return. Very sad, not for young children.


Whither Thou Goest

by mm32

Disclaimer: Freely adapted from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories,  
and from "Whither Thou Goest" by Edward H. Hurlbut, in "Lanagan, Amateur Detective"  
(retrieved from Project Gutenberg). both in the public domain.

Warnings: Extreme sadness, not appropriate for young children.

A/N: Narrated by Miss Jane Watson. Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Return.  
Crime/mystery/hurt-comfort.  
Many thanks to my wonderful husband and beta, Tim.  
For Miss Jane's earlier history, see my stories "A Small Adventure" and  
"The Criminal Face".

Dear Reader, it is my duty to relate to you the saddest story that I will  
probably ever tell, especially since my brother John has already told the story of  
our friend Mr. Holmes' tragic demise at Reichenbach Falls.  
My elegant feline friend Cassandra and I were sitting in my third floor  
apartments at 221B Baker Street, near a small fire I had lit, on an unseasonbly  
cool summer evening. The ticking of the old wooden clock on the wall, the  
tolling of its bell nine times, and occasional cracks and pops from the fire were  
the only sounds as the summer night began to settle upon us.  
Cassie's ears pricked up and I noticed her start up in agitation, wander  
round the room a bit, as if looking for shelter, and then slink into a far,  
dark corner of the room. I wondered briefly what that was about. Not long after,  
I was reminded again of her amazing prescience, as my brother John burst into the  
house, stormed up the stairs to my (formerly his) apartments, and desperately  
asked me "Have you seen Mary?"  
Mary was, of course, his wife, the former Mary Morstan, with whom he had  
lived happily for the past two years.  
"No, I haven't," I replied simply, surprised at his entrance and sudden  
query.  
"She's gone missing! The housekeeper saw her go out this afternoon and  
she hasn't been home since," my brother breathlessly expelled. He sat down heavily  
on a chair and stared at me with desperate expectation.  
I asked, "Did she leave a note? Had she told you she was going somewhere?"  
He shook his head. He breathed heavily and his eyes looked a little wet.  
"Now John dear, I'm sure it is allright," I said calmly but firmly,  
moving across the room to put a sisterly arm around his shoulders. "She probably  
just forgot to tell you."  
But, in the back of my mind, my true thoughts were a bit darker. One  
afternoon almost a fortnight past I had gone to visit Mary to invite them to dinner.  
Just as I was approaching their house, I saw a middle-aged man leaving it. He  
was pale, thin, even somewhat gaunt, and coughed from deep in his lungs as he exited  
through their little front gate. Mary stood at the door, looking surprisingly  
excited and flushed, and called out, "Goodbye, James dear!"  
I paused a moment in surprise, as I was not aware that Mary had any living  
relatives. The strange man walked toward me and glanced suspiciously at me as he  
passed, leaving an unhealthy smell of illness and confinement in his wake. When I  
reached the door, I greeted Mary with a quizzical expression on my face, I am sure,  
for she said, blushing, that the man I had passed was her brother, whom she had  
not seen for many years, and had presumed dead. "He's feeling poorly, the poor  
dear, and can eat only almonds. They soothe his stomach," she said in explanation.  
I tried to nod sagely, wondering privately what disease was ameliorated by the  
consumption of almonds.  
I replied that she and John must bring him to dinner, then,  
so that we could welcome him to the family. Mary too quickly agreed, with a  
furtive look at the door, which caused me some puzzlement. However, I put it  
out of my mind, especially as I could see some family resemblance between them,  
and had not thought it worth going out of my way to find John and ask him about it,  
as I had assumed I would have seen them both soon anyway.  
Mentally returning back to my apartments and the present, I said to John,  
"Maybe she has just gone to take care of her brother. He didn't look well when I  
saw him last week."  
John looked at me with astonishment. "What brother?" he asked.  
"The one who came visiting, with the cough, surely you've met him?" I said.  
"No, no, I haven't," he said, looking worried and pathetic. His hair had  
fallen down over his face, and his sad eyes peered out at me fearfully. I told him  
of my recent visit. "I swear to you, I have never heard of him before this day,"  
John said to me, point blank, a weary hopelessness beginning to creep up in his  
eyes.  
As I am also a doctor (thanks in part to our father's lackadaisical  
attitude toward the "proper" place of women and some of John's old textbooks), I  
noticed that my brother was heading down the wrong road, and said, "Now, lets not  
dwell on it; this is not healthy. I'm sure Mary will turn up in the morning."  
I smiled at him as best I could.  
John saw the sense in this, and decided to take positive action. He told  
me that he would go home to wait for her - she was probably home already - and get  
some supper. I showed him out the door with as much cheerfulness and shared  
resolve as I could muster. Then I sat down to muse pensively before the little  
fire. Cassie did not emerge from her hiding place all night.

Over the next few days I waited with increasing worry to hear something  
from John or from Mary, I received no word. On the fourth day since John's  
unsettling visit, I went to his practice, but found it closed. I then went to his  
house. When I knocked at the door, it was eagerly flung open by John, who took  
one look at me and said, "Oh, it's you." He paused, then said, "Well, come on in,  
then."  
Under normal circumstances I would have tried to make a smart reply, but  
his disheveled appearance and the dark circles under his eyes silenced me.  
"So, no word from Mary?" I finally asked after surveying his messy  
home.  
"No," he said, tight-jawed and distant. He drifted distractedly to the  
back parlor, and plopped down in his favorite old, battered overstuffed chair. He  
said nothing more. I followed him in and looked around. Not only plates and cups  
were scattered about, but papers too, and even items of furniture lay overturned,  
as if John had had an explosion of violent temper in the night (which, I thought,  
he probably had).  
As I was righting a small but thankfully sturdy table, I noticed a picture  
on the floor in the corner. I picked it up to hang it back on the wall and saw  
that it was a framed piece of needlework, a flowery little plaque with the words  
"Whither thou goest, I will follow" embroidered in its center. The glass  
covering it was broken and partly in shards on the floor, but the frame and fabric  
were intact. I looked over at John, moodily staring at the wall, and put the  
picture in my medical bag for safekeeping. I did not want him to further  
damage anything so precious.  
Due to his obviously depressed state, I felt it was unsafe to leave him  
alone, so I quietly cleaned up the house, helped the housekeeper with the noon  
meal, and sent word requesting that Mrs. Hudson feed Cassandra for a few days. I  
informed her that John was not well and Mary had not yet returned, as she had  
doubtless heard much of what transpired a few days before. She kindly packed a  
bag for me and sent it, unbidden, a courtesy for which I was very grateful, as I  
did not want to leave John for an instant in that state. Truth to tell, Mr Holmes  
was not the only one in their friendship to suffer from a delicate nature.  
After a few days more, even though Mary did not reappear, John seemed to  
have stabilized somewhat. We had gone with her picture to the local police,  
had alerted Mr. Holmes' young "Irregulars," and had even spoken with Detective  
Inspector Lestrade about Mary's dissapearance. These efforts seemed to comfort  
John enough that I felt it safe to check on Cassie daily and also to return to my  
small women's and children's practice for a few hours each day.  
So it was, that I was in my office when I next saw Mary. She appeared at  
the door looking worried and poorly rested. She looked as if she had not had a  
proper change of clothes or a bath in many days. She furtively entered the waiting  
area, almost jumping when a little bell over the door tinkled to announce her  
entrance. I was between patients at the moment, and I rushed to her, taking her  
hands and urging her to sit down. She sat and sipped at the glass of water I  
brought her. I did not want to spook this frightened deer, so I waited for her  
to lead the conversation.  
Mary asked me if I would visit a sick person - her brother James. She  
said that his condition had worsened, that he still could hardly eat anything but  
almonds, and coughed constantly. I said immediately (but as calmly as I could)  
that I would be happy to treat him.  
We left immediately. As we were walking (Mary insisted upon not taking a  
cab), I casually mentioned that John was quite worried about her. She looked at me  
fearfully for a second, then pulled out a somewhat dirty handkerchief and began to  
dab her eyes. After a few minutes silent treading together through city streets,  
she said, "Well, I guess I may as well tell you." She explained to me that  
James was really her husband, whom she had thought was dead for many years. When  
he called upon her, she felt it was her wifely obligation to go with him,  
especially as he was in such poor health and in need of care. I was horrified to  
hear this, but couldn't argue with her reasoning. I couldn't begin to imagine how  
John would take such news.  
We walked for quite a while, going deeply into a less pleasant part of  
town, and entered a dingy walk-up apartment building. One flight up, Mary turned  
the key to a small one-bedroom apartment, a blast of warm, stale air emitting from  
within as the door opened. James was lying on a small iron bed, looking as if he  
were quite literally being "consumed" by his consumption, for such I concluded  
it was that ailed him. I presribed some medicine for him, mostly for his cough,  
and recommended keeping him warm, also suggesting allowing some fresh air into  
the place, but could do little more.  
As I handed her the prescription, Mary told me that they were planning to  
move to the south, on the Continent, for his health, as soon as James was well  
enough to travel. When I began to object, she silenced me and demanded that I  
not tell John. She was so agitated, and even fearful, about this that I agreed.  
She actually looked like she might be in some danger, glancing back toward James as  
she made me promise.

I kept my promise, at least as far as telling John. However, upon leaving  
them, I want straight to Scotland Yard, to tell Inspector Lestrade of the virtual  
kidnapping of John's wife. I did not believe for a minute that that man was Mary's  
lawful husband.  
Lestrade's expression showed that he did not like to see me there alone,  
but when he saw my expression, he bid me enter his office. I immediately told  
him Mary's situation and whereabouts. He then showed me a piece of paper, a small  
handbill printed with, of all things, James' face! It read: "Wanted, James  
Morstan, escaped prisoner accused of triple murder in Dublin." In a shocked voice,  
I confirmed that that was indeed the man with Mary, and the famous Scotland  
Yard machine sprang into action.  
After telling me firmly to go home, Lestrade and a team of men rushed to  
the place where I had indicated that Mary and James were staying (I had memorized  
the address), but the two were already gone.  
The police set up a watch all around the city, at train stations, docks,  
and major roads, providing both of their pictures to all concerned, but to no  
avail.  
I could not figure out how to help. I had determined not to break my  
promise to Mary until I had some resolution for John, but I was unwilling to sit  
idle. I told myself that there was no need to endanger his mental state, as  
she would no doubt be found and returned home in just a few days anyway.  
Early each morning, I told him that I was going to my practice, and each  
day I returned to his home at dusk to help with supper, but in between these times,  
I became a huntress. I figured that Mary and James could not have gone far - his  
health was too poor and they were unwilling to trust public transport of any  
kind, from what I had experienced. Therefore, I prowled the streets near where  
they had been, looking around me with decreasing hope as the hours went by. It  
was on the third day of this useless stalking that I saw a packet of almonds  
lying opened on the sidewalk, with its contents partly scattered across the  
pavement. Aha, I thought, almonds! James needed almonds, a fair amount of them,  
and fine nuts such as these are not too commonly purchased in these poorer  
neighborhoods.  
I devised a plan to search all the local grocers, asking the proprietors  
if a pale young woman with blond hair (whom the shopkeeper did not already know)  
had been in recently to purchase a quantity of almonds. The fourth store I tried  
yielded a positive result. The store owner had sold the nuts to a girl fitting  
Mary's description not three days past!  
Once the store was found, I took up a seat at a small cafe opposite the  
store. I spent the next two days there and in walking up and down the street in  
a quiet hat and veil. I was getting quite exhausted by all of this tense waiting  
- I remember thinking to myself that I didn't know how detectives do this day in  
and day out - and I felt my nerves frazzled from too much coffee and tea drinking.  
The waitress at the cafe was beginning to give me odd looks, too.  
Finally, just as I was beginning to wonder if I had missed her, I saw  
a tired and pathetic-looking Mary approach the store. When she had transacted  
her business and left, I followed her home, hoping desperately that I was not  
following too closely. I noted the address, and waited until I saw a dim light  
appear in a window. I could just make out Mary's form as she moved about the  
room.  
It was getting dark as I rushed, tired but jubilant, to Scotland Yard and  
breathlessly told the officers that I had located the pair, and that the fugitives  
were yet unaware that they were found, and hence likely to stay for a little while,  
at least.  
With no time wasted, a detective was sent out to ascertain the truth of  
my claims. He returned not long after, confirming that he had seen Mary through  
a window.  
I begged Inspector Lestrade, who was now actively arranging a party of  
men, not to tell John, as I was worried that he would not be able to handle it  
if things went badly. He hurriedly pooh-poohed me and sent for him anyway.  
When John arrived, and was informed of the situation, he insisted upon going with  
the police to apprehend James and rescue his wife. Call me overprotective, but I  
had a very bad feeling about this. Lestrade at least allowed me to accompany  
John (and to sneak a bit of nerve tonic into his tea).

The assault on James and Mary's place of concealment was actually over  
very quickly. I stayed at the bottom of the foyer staircase, by the front door,  
as the men, including John, went up to knock on the apartment door. It pains me  
to remember how the police called out, "James Morstan, open this door, we know  
you're in there," and then to hear him say, with defiant hatred in his sickly  
voice, "Pray, Mary," hear her desperate protestations and his re-iterated demand.  
I remember hearing her begin, "Our Father, Who art in heaven...," and then hearing  
two gunshots, followed by a hollow silence. I remember John screaming out "Mary!"  
and throwing himself at the door, bursting in, and crying out "Noooo!"  
I sat on a bench at the bottom of the staircase in stunned silence, tears  
sliding quietly down my face.  
Then came more police, milling soberly in and out, eventually carrying  
two covered stretchers down the stairs and out the door, followed by John,  
leaning heavily on Lestrade's arm. He did not acknowledge me as he passed.

I did not see John again until the funeral. Throughout it, he did not  
look at me - I suppose he blamed me for not telling him everything sooner. I  
hope and pray that I did the right thing. It seemed so at the time.  
A few days later, I went to John's house, bringing Mary's little  
needlework picture with me. I had bought a little silk-lined box for it. He  
allowed me in the door, but was still cold, and impatient to be done with our  
interview. I opened the box and held out the picture to him. "I thought you  
might want this," I said.  
"Throw it away," he replied, turning away. I put it gently back into its  
soft container. I know the day will come when he will want it again, when he  
will be able to remember their happy times together, and how much she loved him.  
The next day, I brought John dinner, and the next. By the third day he  
was speaking to me again somewhat conversationally, but he still looked very  
unkempt and pathetically alone. I broached the topic of his moving back to  
221B Baker Street. The third floor apartment that he had bequeathed to me upon  
his marriage had three bedrooms and two sitting rooms. It was really too large  
for my (and Cassandra's) needs. It took some urging over time, but he finally  
consented to moving back under Mrs. Hudson's familiar roof. He is now once again  
in his "second home," as he thinks of it, surrounded by loved ones, awaiting  
that day when somehow, in another world perhaps, he and Mary will be reunited,  
blissfully, for ever.

The End.


End file.
